


you just might see a ghost tonight

by daredoll



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: F/M, ghost evie, mediator harry, modern au (kind of), the mediator au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredoll/pseuds/daredoll
Summary: “Harry, who are you---” Uma’s voice comes out of nowhere behind him, and he startles, looking over his shoulder to spot her peering at him and Gil peering beyond him. Meeting his eyes, her expression grows protective. “Another one?”





	1. shadowland

**Author's Note:**

> Based heavily on the Mediator series by Meg Cabot, with VERY slight influence from Being Human.

It’s not exactly ideal, the apartment above a closed down fish and chips shop, but Uma says it smells like home. It’s on the coast, and that’s really enough for Harry and Gil, too. For once they aren’t just the infamous kids of even more infamous characters. Uma is free of mandatory shifts at a restaurant that was more front for her mom’s cast of unsavory friends than eatery. Gil, simple Gil, is just happy to be living with his best friends.

Harry— Harry is glad to be away from a father who’s never impressed nor satisfied and the ghost-infested village James Hook dumped his family in between voyages. Plus, rent is cheap, and they’ll be able to afford a skipper of their own in no time to travel the seven seas, free of their parent’s legacy and free to be as wicked as they want.

_They’re misfits, it’s scoured on their skin like graffiti. Gil, big and blonde and bright (but only in the most literal sense of the world) follows the girl like some lost puppy wherever she goes. Uma, cool and controlled and confident (but not always, not later when it’s finally the three of them) approaches him first. And Harry, arrogant and angry and alone (looking for anyone to follow, anyone to accept him) takes her offer in half a moment. They’re young, full to the brim with wide-eyed innocence and chests open to expose their trampled hearts, and they fashion themselves a little pirate band. Their hearts heal with jagged scars and innocence turns to bite, but the trio keeps a tight hold on each other. Uma as captain, Harry as first mate, and Gil the whole motley crew._

“Harry, your room’s the one in the back,” Uma informs him, knocking him square in the chest with a box of his junk as his eyes roam the living room walls. “Aye aye, captain.” he grunts under the weight. A huff of annoyance follows the sight of Gil carrying two huge boxes into Uma’s room without breaking a sweat, their lovely leader following to direct him where to set it. ~~So much for teamwork~~. He toes his door open with the tip of his boot and sets the load down with a grateful sigh. Looking up to survey his new room, kohl-rimmed eyes widen and a sense of annoyed dread shivers through his body.

She’s running her fingers over his sheets, ensuring that they lay perfectly flat upon his bed. Midnight curls flow down her back like a curtain and frame a divine face. Her dress is cobalt, off the shoulder with long sleeves trimmed in gold thread, and a scarlet corset cinches her waist. She belongs in a fairy tale— but not his new home.

“Ye’ve got tae be kidding me,” he breathes, pushing unruly black hair out of his face (almost as if he thinks a better look will change the reality before him). The young woman looks up then, crimson lips quirking into a saccharine smile, at least until she catches how his eyes bore into her rather than through her. Umber eyes widen and a hand goes to cover her mouth.

It’s the cool grey veil over her that gives it away, even more so than her storybook dress.

“You can see me?” Her voice is a sigh like velvet, too, but any words from her are just a thorn in his side. This is not happening. _**Not here**_. This is supposed to be a fresh start.

“O’ course I can see ye. Hear ye, too, but not for long.” His arms cross, jaw clenching as a familiar manic glint seeps into stormy eyes. “I am not sharing my new room with a wee ghostie. So _get_.”

All sugar leaves her gaze at that, her eyebrows knitting as she lets out the hint of a scoff, not quite the same picture of a pretty princess as she was a moment ago. “Your room? This was my home far before it was **ever** yours.” There’s hurt behind the imperious words, but no sign of backing down. He’s made a mistake, not crimson lips but blood red. “A lady doesn’t _get_.”

“I don’t care if ye were the queen of Sheba, princess. Yer home is the great beyond now.”

“Harry, who are you—” Uma’s voice comes out of nowhere behind him, and he startles, looking over his shoulder to spot her peering at him and Gil peering beyond him. Meeting his eyes, her expression grows protective. “Another one?”

_He trusts them like he trusts no one else, but it still isn’t enough. He tried to tell his Da once. Told him about the pedestrians like grey smoke, the pleading eyes, and the fingers like ice that grasped at him when he couldn’t give them what they wanted. They’re spirits, and they can touch him and hurt him. They ask for so much, lost trinkets and cold revenge. His father, voice so polite and so terrible, tells him never to waste his time with ghost stories ever again. Harry doesn’t. (No one else can see them. They can’t touch anyone else, only objects. He’s the only one. An abomination.)_

Gil, for his part, waves into the room with a shy smile. “They made your bed,” he comments, unfazed. The ghost eyes his crew warily, but even her face softens at Gil.

_He won’t tell them, he needs his crew too much to watch them walk away. (It’s okay to be mad when it’s just fits of rage, but this is beyond that.) But the ghosts don’t care. They just take, and he can’t exactly hide his secret from them when a particularly nasty apparition decides to try and jump him while the three are exploring together one day. He’s punching the air and Uma’s screaming at him to calm down. It’s Gil that sees the shadows of its punches on his skin and Gil that understands so easily when he spills everything to them later, hands gripping at his hair like a lifeline while purple bruises bloom on his skin. He yells at them to just get out already; it’s better to make them leave than be left alone again. They don’t leave. Gil crushes him in a bear hug he can’t stand (one he desperately needs) and Uma eyes him for only half a moment before tentatively taking his hands. They’re a crew, always have been always will be. They’ll manage the spirits the same way they manage his awful temper, she teases._

“Aye, another one,” Harry admits to Uma before smacking Gil upside the head. “And I don’t want any corpses making my bed.” It’s a cruel thing to say, he knows, but cruel runs in his blood.

_Their fearless leader takes the ghosts in stride like she does everything else, by taking charge of the situation. She makes them read up on witchcraft and exorcisms and ghouls. She’s surprisingly good at it (mutters something about a sea witch in the family), and she keeps all the ingredients for at least one kind of ritual with her always. Gil is surprisingly tuned in from the very beginning. He might be as dull as a board when it comes to practical things, but he knows far more about the heart than the other two. He’s an anchor, and he appreciates the spirits like they were any other person walking down the street. Sometimes it’s almost like he, too, can sense them._

He pretends not to see how her face crumples for a moment, or the sparkle of unshed tears that builds in her eyes. (Even he knows there’s no honour in making pretty girls cry, dead or alive.) Voice resigned, and maybe even a little kinder, he gives the apparition his attention again. “Might as well show yerself, princess.”

She sniffs primly, brushing away a tear when she thinks he won’t see it, but her hands shift to her hips rather than stay vulnerable. “ _ **Evie**_. Call me Evie.” To his surprise she actually does take a more corporeal form, or at least he imagines she does because Uma’s breath catches behind him. Gil, golden retriever that he is, leans into him and whispers. “She’s really pretty.”


	2. ninth key

He likes the men at the pubs--- they remind him of his Da on a good day (no matter how few and far between those days might have been), a Captain James Hook who would gather up his three wee runts around him and regale them with stories of his one great love, the sea.

And, at the pubs along the shore, the tales are all might the same. The siren song, the will o’ the wisps, and every sailor worth his salt’s greatest treasure, the phantom that walks by night. It’s when he has to get out of the apartment (he won’t call it a home with the ghastly girl still poking her head in all too often) that he comes to these seadogs for the comfort his old man can no longer give him.

_It’s the little things that set him off, the holes in their bedding sewn neatly shut, a warm apple pie on their windowsill, and even a blanket tucked over his shoulders when he’s drifted off to sleep in a place not his bed. Uma warns them of the tokens, wafts the smoke of bundled sage all throughout their home. Gil calls them gifts, takes heaping mouthfuls of the pie and snuggles into his sheets with contented sighs. Harry just paces, wound up to the hilt._

This visit he’s had enough of hearing stories wafting from their table to the bar and he buys a pitcher for the oldest table. It’s more than enough to earn him a spot among them, and with a few toasts the stories begin without him even needing to ask (for everyone knows that all old men with tall tales need is a fresh set of ears to bring their oldest and best boasts back to life). More than a few rounds later the elders have shared all they have and lean back deep in their seats, near glowing with the shadows of their golden youth that their tales have resurrected. His nerves at ease and a familiar warmth buzzing through his system, Harry dares ask his question.

“I’ve heard whispers in this misty town of another ghostie. Do any of ye ken a tale of a lass called Evie?”

_It crashes like waves on a breaking wall when he catches her in their commons, watching Gil with kind eyes and giggling along to his antics. He catches her wrist in his hand without a word but with thunder in his eyes, dragging her roughly to his room. He slams the door, causing the whole frame to shake, but all she does is stare at his fingers on her skin. There’s wonder in her gaze before there ever could be fear._

_"You can touch me,” she breathes, apple lips just flickering at a smile. Pity pricks at what’s left of his heart. How long has it been since she’s felt something, and all he offers is rage. (The scars are too deep. The pity never had a chance at getting through.) He releases her before those nimble grey fingers of hers can reach to run along his hand._

There’s silence among the men as they ponder, but the silence doesn’t hide the growth of shared looks and eager eyes, a silent bidding war among them for the right to tell the village’s best tale. The eldest, quiet so far among them, clears his throat and eager eyes become eager ears all around.

“Aye lad, ye mean our own bonnie lass Evaine.” His voice is coarse from years of sea air, and Harry unconsciously tips forward in his chair, the hairs at the back of his neck just starting to stand. A puff of a pipe and the smoke of it sets the eerie stage.

“A beautiful queen once reigned in a kingdom called Grimhilde, along the Rhine. She had two heirs, the first a girl I’m sure ye ken, with lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony, and skin as white as snow. Was the queen’s undoing, her stepdaughter, and was her son-in-law’s love of his wife that drove her from her kingdom.

“But, her second daughter was her own flesh and blood, and just as fair of face as her stepsister. Garnet lips, her mother’s tan skin, and hair so dark it was nearly, or, according to some more committed to fairy tales, completely blue. Was this daughter that the queen stole away with when Snow White’s husband called for the witch’s head.

“They went to France first, but were granted asylum only in passage to our own highlands. The long-abandoned castle on the cliff beside the shore was made their new home.

“Now, Evaine had her mother’s beauty but none of her wicked heart. She was loved by all around and many a lad came from far and wide to beg for her hand. None were good enough for the Evil Queen, who would only deign to marry her daughter off to a prince. So Evaine remained in her highest tower, only getting prettier and prettier as the days passed her by.

“The queen’s looks faded, and with them faded what little real love she held for her daughter in her heart. In place grew the same jealousy that had nearly killed her stepdaughter, but our bonnie lass was not so lucky.”

Harry’ stomach drops, and he can only clench his hands into fists beneath the table to hide his rising temper. He can only see the sad doe’s eyes of a princess, phantom hands wringing as he had last interrogated her.

_“What the fuck are ye doing?” he shouts, ignoring her revelation. Finally Evie meets his gaze, earth meeting sky and there’s only a moment’s hesitation before the spirit’s eyes flash, too. Her mouth is a straight line, and she’s certainly a vision of wrath._

_“ I don’t know, **Laird Harry** ,” she sneers the title, knows he hates it. “I can’t even imagine what your spiteful little mind might think I’m doing.” _

_“Ye don’t belong here,” he snarls in turn, taking a step towards her. It’s Harry’s favorite trick, crowding people. It throws them off, makes them nervous and usually he revels in their uncertainty. Evie just peers up at him, eyes narrowing and not an ounce of anything remotely scared in her._

_“Leaving yer little ghostly goodies. Trying to make us forget that we’ve got a corpse among us.”_

“Was Evaine’s twentieth birthday that the queen gifted her child, not an apple as red as her lips, but a golden tiara with sapphires as blue as the tones of her hair. The girl slipped it into her inky tresses; her eyes beamed with the purity of gratitude--- until the poisoned combs made contact with her skin. She crumpled to the floor like a flower underfoot, and her mother did naught but turn the lass onto her back and carve out her young heart.”

He sees red then, chasing down the bile rising up his throat with a swig of ale. “ _ **Can’t you see I’m just trying to help you?**_ ” she’d said the last time he’d seen her. “ _ **I hate to be alone.**_ ” Alone. Alone in an ivory tower. Alone and unprotected.

 _“Do not call me that.” She’s deathly quiet now, as she should be, and her eyes hold his, daring him to look away. Harry can see every flicker of emotion as they cross her eyes, as if they’re fathomless and yet full to the brim, and for a moment it’s his turn to wonder how eyes so brown can remind him so much of the sea. He’s weak, he knows this, and breaks first, breaking whatever that moment of silence held with a shudder. Evie scoffs, bringing her arms over her chest, and shifts away from him._ _“Can’t you see I’m just trying to help you?” Umber eyes flit back to look at him and she laughs, harsh and hollow._ _“You can’t. I know you can’t, but you should see yourselves.”_

_“What’s that supposed tae mean, princess?” The rage has dissipated, grown colder at least._

_“You’re lost and alone. No parents, no supervision, and no love from anyone except each other. No one looks after you.” Her words sting no matter how gently she says them, and the anger bubbles right back up. He doesn’t want anyone else to see them for how they see themselves, and yet somehow this spirit can? "_ _I hate ~~to be alone~~ \--- hate to see you so alone.” _

_“ We donnae need ye, ghostie, and we donnae want ye, either.”_

“They say ye can still see her in the village. Lasses still seek her protection on dark nights. She looks after them and all wayward youth, guiding them to a warm home after all the fun she never got tae have is done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's not a lot of the sea3 together this chapter and I apologize (but stay tuned for the next chapter because it has a lot of everything)! This is mostly setting up the background that wasn't established earlier, and I couldn't resist showing Harry as the son of the sea that he is with fellow sailors (although, u, he's not exactly cordial with our ghostie and by not cordial I mean he's an ass). ( also yeah I have no idea what time period this is set in either ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ) I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	3. reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which harry hook is a Walking Disaster ™

He leaves the pub with a bottle in his hand and a tremor in his step. He’s drank more than he should, and he knows it, still trudging on. The wind tugs at his hair, and Harry laughs, high and cruel and eerie. (He’s downed shot after shot hoping they would wash away the images playing through his mind of evil queens and princesses with no prince to save them, and yet they’re still there.) She haunts him even now, even when he can no longer make himself fear her.

The street starts to shift, rising up and down like the deck of a ship on choppy waters, but he doesn’t have his sea legs now. He stumbles a few more steps, his boots like cement, before he topples, slowly enough not to hurt but far too quickly for his wobbly limbs to save him. He laughs again, this time quieter and almost resigned as storm grey eyes stare up at the sky. _Second star to the right and straight on til morning_ , his Da always said. Harry wonders if they had ghosts as well as fearsome pirates in _**Neverland**_. (He hopes they didn’t.)

Time passes differently when you’re out of your head, but it feels halfway between minutes and decades when his eyes are tugged from the stars by the sound of feet crunching on new snow. It was snowing? Friendly flurries swirl around his head, and on impulse he sticks out his tongue to catch a few. He’s so engrossed in this tricky endeavor he only barely registers two figures approaching him, even when one of them with familiar aqua braids kicks at his boot to get his attention. A boisterous laugh follows, but there’s no malice in it. (There never is with Gil.) Harry chuckles, too, finally looking at his friend--- but all too suddenly he can’t stop laughing and he can’t breath quick enough to keep up with them as tears bite at the edges of his lashes. 

(He can’t remember the last time he’s cried.)

Uma just watches him, he can feel it, and he wants to stop even more because of it. She deserves better than a weak little boy as her right hand, but suddenly she’s taking his hands (just like she did all those years ago). Her hands are rough and solid and warm and home. His manic laughter turns to hiccups turns to gasps, and when he’s through it she’s looking right at him, looking right through him. 

“You’re alright, Harry,” she says simply, and nods up in reassurance at Gil standing beside her. The blonde just smiles down at him, no judgement as always, and for once Harry manages to smile back in kind just as real. It’s small but it’s there all the same. 

The two of them haul him up, keeping him steady between them as the trio heads for home. Harry begins the long process of sobering up, but having the both of them on either side warms his chilled bones. He’d always thought being the center, standing in the middle, would be suffocating with nowhere to go, but instead it’s pretty nice. Still, he attempts to clear his throat, but it’s still raw from alcohol and hysterics.

“Back there. That never happened,” he tries, skimming his gaze from Uma to Gil. She laughs, only half unkind.

“No way. That definitely happened,” Uma replies with a cheeky smirk and a flick of her braids over her shoulder. One catches the tip of Harry’s nose and he’s about to argue before Gil speaks up.

“Never happened like when I told that kid my dad wanted him to tell his mom he was still single?” Gil asks seriously. For their part, Uma and Harry don’t even have to make eye contact before they start snickering in sync. The blonde gives a soft “ _come on, guys_ ,” but that only makes the other two laugh harder. The tallest among them lasts a whole five steps before he’s laughing, too. As they all begin to quiet down, he continues his question. “So never happened like when everyone called Uma Shrimpy.”

“ **GIL**!” Uma warns, but for the first time Harry isn’t hot on her heels to join in. This time--- this time a giggle bubbles up from the bottom of his stomach. With a scoff, she turns on him, but the look on his face manages to snuff any anger she’d been fanning. The edges of her lips threaten to quirk and she looks forward (mostly to keep herself from chuckling too).

“What exactly did you drink tonight?” she finally asks, as they reach the stairs beside the chip shop that lead to their apartment. Harry offers her a wink as he reaches for the stair rail.

“Everything, Captain.”

Getting Harry up the stairs is a chore Uma leaves to Gil, who in turn simply hefts him over his brawny shoulder and starts his ascent. Harry is too weak and intoxicated to give anything but a few half-hearted kicks and a “lemme go or I’ll hook ye!” or two in protest. Gil might have been scared had Harry not already threatened that exact act about once a week of their seventeen years of friendship.

They make it to the top, and Uma’s hand reaches for Gil’s sleeve to stop him. He sets Harry back on his feet, and the two steady him outside the door, bracing him between them. A glance passes between the two sets of sober eyes, and somehow through his drink-addled head the raven-haired boy can feel their gentle friend deflate beside him. Uma, on the other hand, is unreadable as she graces him with her attention.

“We’ve talked it through,” she begins, almost immediately intercepted by Gil mumbling “ ~~actually you did most of the talking~~ ”. Uma fixes him with a look, and he sighs with a submissive nod.

“We’ve talked it through.” he agrees, and Uma continues.

“This is supposed to be a fresh start for us. A _good_ start, and obviously our lovely grey lady is---” She looks to Gil for something, but he stays surprisingly tight-lipped. “It’s tearing you apart. We can’t stand seeing you like this, Harry.” Now, of course, Gil has something to say.

“I like her,” he objects, looking between the other two altogether too much like a little boy trying to convince his parents to let him keep the stray he found on his way home. “She’s nice, if you would just give her a chance!”

“Gil,” Uma warns, although there’s something in her tone that doesn’t exactly scream disagreement. He only frowns and looks down at his feet. Satisfied, she looks back to Harry, voice sure but something in her eyes not entirely so. “It’s your choice, Harry Hook. We’ll exorcise her tomorrow if you say it.”

“No!” he says too quickly, and his friends offer him identical looks of confusion. Gil’s quickly turns to elation and a grin stretches his face wonderfully. Uma just watches him as if he’s a stranger, and maybe he’s become one tonight. His lips part to explain, but close slowly before he can even start. Is it his story to tell? He trusts his friends completely, but with so much whiskey in his stomach he isn’t sure he trusts himself to tell it as she deserves. “She isn’t what I thought she was,” he supplies lamely, his whole posture somehow conveying that he’ll explain later.

“Alright then,” Uma manages to respond, looking infinitely lighter than when she’d offered her help. The whites of her teeth show more like the grin of a shark than a girl as she elbows him in the side. “So that’s a promise that you’re going to quit being a whining, moping prat from now on?”

“Aye, Captain. That’s a promise,” he agrees with a roll of his eyes. Her head falls back in uproarious laughter, and Gil finally opens the door for them to tumble in. Uma leaves her mess of a crew to their own devices and heads to bed, complaining good-naturedly about someone having to actually get up and work in the morning if they want to leave this foggy village. Gil is more attentive, insisting Harry actually take his boots off before stumbling into bed and forcing him to drink a glass of water. He even tosses a blanket over his friend before heading to bed himself. Before he shuts the door, a golden crowned head pops in one last time.

“You’re going to be  _ so _ hungover,” he taunts with a grin, and Harry chucks a pillow at him (but Gil closes the door before it can hit his annoyingly perky face).

As bundled under the covers as he is, there’s nothing but restlessness writhing behind closed eyes. He may be a cocky, foolhardy, overbearing whelp, but there is still some honor that his father managed to ingrain in him left in his body. (A notion he finds hard to fathom when sober. How can one impart honor if they no longer hold it themselves?) 

“Evie.” The name escapes his lip as a sigh like penance, and above all he knows he has no right to call on her. After a few moments of waiting with bated breath, there’s a shudder in the atmosphere around him, and he scrambles sloppily to prop himself up on his elbows.

She’s leaning against the closed door, hair twined into a braid and her hands fiddling with it nervously. The spirit peers at him uncertainly from her post, but all words have dried up in his throat. Obviously he hasn’t thought this through. What is he supposed to say (I heard how you died and you deserved a better mother and I’m sorry I was such a git and I wish I could have saved you) ?

She spares him the inner turmoil with a step towards him and then another. Her gaze, deep and almost black in the little light he has to see her by, roves from the damp and tangled mop of raven hair on his head to the ruddy color of his cheeks and finally to glassy dove grey eyes, and she hides the bloom of a smile behind her hand.

“Why, my laird, if I didn’t know any better I might think you had been drinking this snowy night,” she teases, gathering her skirt around her to perch on the edge of his bed next to him. He notices that her lips are no longer crimson, but a dusty rose color that reminds him startlingly like a sunset, and her usual finery is replaced by a simple white linen dress. Was she---

“Were ye sleepin’?” he babbles in reply, words slurring in the process, both from drink and weariness. She shakes her head, smile only growing.

“Something like it, but not quite. It sounds like you ought to be, though.” He chuckles, low and soft, and suddenly realizes he’s enjoying this. There’s a warm pride bubbling in him at making her grin. 

The two catch each other’s eyes for a beat too long and suddenly the silence is hard to ignore. The mirth in her eyes slowly wanes as she remembers herself, and there is no gentle ribbing in her next words. “If you have no need of me or want of me, why did you call upon me?” 

Well, that--- that is a question he’d rather not touch, and yet that nosy honour of his forces him to.

“I--- I’m sorry, princess. I was cruel tae ye.” His voice is bone-tired and reverent, and where earlier he’d broken their eye contact, now there’s no way he can look away. She really is beautiful, especially like this with no sheen of tears distorting the depth of those doe eyes. Who could have ever made such a gentle thing cry? 

Her hand comes up to his face achingly slowly, so timidly, and as he is, legless and guilty and transfixed, there’s nothing that could ever stop him from leaning into her hand as her thumb traces his jaw. Her touch is like ice, but he warms to it, memorizes it.

“There’s cruelty in your blood, Harry Hook,” she sighs, watching him--- watching him how? He’s never known gentleness like this, and surely someone he’s behaved so badly toward could never look at him with that. “And it’s we spirits that have dragged it out of you, haven’t we?” The princess searches his eyes before a hint of a soft smile again graces her face. “You’re strong enough to keep it at bay now, though, I think.” And finally she takes one of his hands in hers and squeezes it. He can’t tell if his shiver is from the cold of her skin or simply her touch. 

“As my dear friend would always say after doing something particularly rotten,” a glint lights her eye then, of a time when perhaps she wasn’t so kind herself. “The past is past. Forgive. Forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ myself: hey uhhh have you considered ever keeping to a certain writing style for an entire fic??? no ???
> 
> I hope you enjoyed harry being an emotional wreck of an intoxicated boy (it must have been the whiskey. I hc that our boy's a flirt on rum haha). I was excited to explore Uma a little more in this chapter; I love to show that she's both confidant captain and caring companion depending on what the situation calls and often a bit of both. Gil is, as in everything I write of him, perfect and sweet and just the right base to his friends' more acidic personalities. As always, I sincerely hoped you enjoyed this chapter !!!
> 
> Also of course, Evie is my darling girl, and it was only a matter of time before Harry could no longer deny it !!


	4. darkest hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as findmyownliberation put it  
> "oohohohoooooooooooohohoooooooohmgyogd kennedy oHMY GOOOOOODDDD im calling the POLICE on YOU ACTUALLY"

They appear just as soon as things are finally starting to fall into place, but that is what ghosts always do. They ruin things. (aside from one.) 

Things are good, and gazing at his friends so at ease, Gil sprawled out on the sofa with his head in Uma’s lap as she stretches out beside him, erases most of the tension that has been growing at the base of his neck. The apparition is there, too, sitting primly on the floor beside them, darning a hole in Gil’s trousers, and, if Harry has learned anything about her in the past few weeks, probably formulating a way to embellish them in the future. They’ve noticed it, all of them, tailoring of a jacket here, subtle embroidery along a hem there. Slowly their wardrobes becoming finer and finer, and their spirit cooing over how nice they look. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her happier than when she eyes her finished product.

And, of course, it only takes one short trip into town for that tension to creep back up his spine. Maybe it’s because he’s become so accustomed to Evie in their home, but when he sees the four men in grey-tinged uniforms that haven’t been used in decades, he knows he’s slow on the uptake. He should have been able to sense their chill hours, if not days ago. Still, what’s self-preservation? He saunters up to the group, standing close enough behind them that they should be able to feel his breath, and waits. After a moment of peering behind them and muttered, ghostly whisperings, Harry cracks his sinister smile.

“Ahoy, gents. Ye’re looking a little lost,” he greets, easy as you please. They balk, and Harry chuckles, narrowing his stormy eyes. “Let’s skip the part where ye lose it ‘cause I can see ye, yeah? Cut to the chase. Why are ye here?”

One starts at him, and spits out “None of yer business, laddie.” Another of his “friends” halts him with an arm to the chest. “Just looking for a man.  _ Fraser _ . Old, probably.”

His mind flows back to the sailor who’d told him the princess’s ghost story. His name had been Fraser, and the uniforms would make sense. He doesn’t like where this is going. “I cannae think what four strapping fellows like yerselves would want with an old man.”

“Retribution,” a new ghost of the pack steps forward, and his eyes are hollow with rage. ‘These are not ghosties to be trifled with’ is practically stamped on them. The second of them to speak, the one who seems more or less like their leader, silences him with a glance and turns back to Harry. “He was our leftenant, and once he got us killed on the lines he came back and married my bird. We’re just looking to make some things right.”

It’s a common enough story, one he’s heard at least ten times. Apparitions always want to play the blame game, the what-if scenario. Well, the ‘what if’ is just that, and he doesn’t have time to waste trying to explain that to grown men. “Listen, mate, this is my town, right? The only one making things right is yers truly. Fraser’s a good man, and I won’t be having ye bother him with yer bullshite.”

The mood immediately shifts from apathy to contempt at his words, and he shakes his dark hair out of his eyes. He knows how every first fight between mediator and ghost goes, and it’s time to get it over with. The first to speak, and the shortest among them, steps forward and the bristle of supernatural power emanating from him is enough to cause the hair on Harry’s arms to raise. Too bad the phantom’s not smart enough to use it.

Before the soldier can do anything, Harry stops him with a swing--- flesh and bone hitting the ghost’s glass jaw just right for him to topple to the ground. Looking up (and shaking out his hand, because  _ goddamn _ he forgot how solid ghosts were), Harry’s leer never wavers. “Aye, that’s right. I can touch ye, too.”

There’s utter confusion in the men’s eyes, just as Harry knew there would be, and they flicker out of sight immediately, most likely to regroup. 

God, does Harry hate spirits. (aside from one.)

He breezes through their door like a tempest, slamming it in his haste, and Gil blinks the sleep from his eyes drowsily, looking up at him in confusion from the couch. Uma instantly bats at him until he’s sitting upright and there’s enough room between them for Harry to sit. Harry himself hesitates, but with just one look from the woman everything passes between first mate and captain. Harry begins pacing, adrenaline from the meeting still coursing through his veins, and Gil rests his head on Uma’s shoulder as the two listen. Halfway through his explanation, Evie fades into frame, perched on the armrest beside Gil, and somehow with all of them together he can finally catch his breath. 

“We’ve never done a group exorcism before,” Uma punctures the silence with her unflappable confidence, a slow smile growing. “Should be fun.” Gil shudders (he’s always been a softy), and Harry raises his eyebrows, tipping his head in skeptical agreement. A thought pricks at his brain, and his eyes jerk to meet Evie’s. She looks at him unsure, and guilt colors his cheeks. 

“So are you going to exorcise me also?” she asks in a small voice. All three of them are scrambling to tell her no in different ways before a cheshire cat grin splits her face. If she weren’t already dead he’d worry that she’d asphyxiate from cackling. “Like you could exorcise me,” she manages between laughs.

 

“It’s rude tae sneak up on people, ye ken?” Harry hums that night after the three have headed their separate ways for bed, glancing over his shoulder to where he can feel the princess’s eyes on him. She’s sat herself on his dresser, legs crossed at the ankles, and she leans forward at his words, a sweet (touched with something else he’s not sure he should name) smile on her red lips.

“Would we call it sneaking if the both of us know I’m here?” is her simple reply, and he rolls his eyes to cover any feelings he has of wanting to smudge the spoiled quirk of her lips.

“But why are ye here?” he asks, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt along his collar. Not that he minds, really. Once he’d surrendered to the idea that the spirit was to be a part of their lives, well, he finds himself almost missing her when she isn’t there.

“Just checking up on you.” She says it sincerely, but the sparkle remains in her eye and he has to physically tear his eyes away from the way her teeth tease at her bottom lip. He’s never met anyone that can warm his heart and intoxicate him at the same time, but here is the princess, doing it with ease. 

“I’m fine.” He crosses the three steps to her and leans against the dresser. “Promise.” Light eyes look up to her mischievously as he crosses his heart with a finger. “Now, ghostie, ye better move along before I harm yer gentle sensibilities by getting undressed for bed.”

But Evie only hums, lifting her chin and peering down at him with lips that remind him all too much of forbidden fruit. “But do you really want me to move along?” she teases finally. The right answer is yes. The real answer is most definitely no.

“I would never have pegged ye for a flirt, princess,” he chooses instead, meeting her gaze with a smirk. A titter of a laugh escapes her lips at that, and she shakes her head like he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. (He really, really doesn’t.)

“That’s what all the boys say.” Before he can continue their banter, she’s gone, like smoke in the wind, but for a moment he swears he can smell apple blossoms in her place.

 

“Oh, no,” the ghost comments the next morning, tutting as she glances over Uma’s shoulder to the book in her hands while Harry groggily puts on a kettle for tea. When the other girl looks back to her with furrowed brows, Evie rushes to explain. “I know it’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder but…” she taps at a line of the page, “house blessings only work like that so long as blood of the original family still occupies the dwelling. If a new family moves in they would have to have it blessed again to keep out spirits.”

Uma pauses for a moment, and Harry can just see her mentally storing it away for future reference before she looks up to give Evie a prying grin. “Why does it sound like you know from previous experience?”

“I’ve been a ghost for centuries. I know everything,” she responds flicking midnight curls over her shoulder with a self-satisfied smile. “Besides,” her gaze flits between the two of them, leaning in like she’s about to tell a secret, “I was a very wicked little spirit at the start.” That said, she flounces out of the room, leaving Harry trying to figure out why the idea of Evie and wicked in the same sentence has his skin heating up. Uma, for her part, simply snickers, before stretching her legs and standing to follow the ghost. If he knows anything about his captain, he’s sure she’s off to see what else their spirit might know to aide their next ritual.

“You’re weak, Hook,” she taunts before she turns away from him, and he’s about to comment that he has no idea what she’s talking about, but, damn it, he really does.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Harry calls after her instead, and Uma shakes her head fondly as she passes through the door frame. 

So the four develop a plan, and it’s probably the best one they’ve ever crafted. Uma supplies her own brand of cold-blooded intensity, and Evie her personal insight and experience. Gil provides background chatter that includes the occasional surprisingly good idea. Harry pretends to care. He really should pay more attention, but he’s also very committed to the mindset that punching is the way to solve any problem. Mostly he’s frustrated because the girls have him confined to their apartment for fear of his bumping into the ghostie gang (well, “bumping into” was Gil’s choice of words. Uma used “harassing” and Evie said “instigating”). After two days of pacing and fidgeting in his seat he reaches his limit.

(It’s only half an hour before Uma and Evie settle back into their chairs, giving each other mutually impressed looks as their final plan is laid out before them on the table. Gil gives a whoop of excitement, hauling Uma to her feet to twirl around the kitchen. Uma sports a look of poorly hidden amusement, chuckling along with him ast they both grow dizzy. The apparition watches them with a tender and wistful gleam in her dark eyes before vanishing away.)

 

It hadn’t been his intention to get his ass handed to him by four evil ghosties, but what else was he supposed to do when he came upon them on his walk by the docks? Ignore the fire growing in his chest that the four would round all their unnatural power on an old man who couldn’t even touch them? Ignore the rage he felt that they hadn’t listened to his warning? If they thought he would reign in his temper or leave them be, well, that was their fault. Calloused fingers comb his dark hair back as he clears his throat. They turn to him warily, and his lips split into a dangerous grin. It’s only after the first five minutes that the smile becomes forced, when there’s four ghostly bodies surrounding him and the spirits are landing their blows faster than he can retaliate. 

He holds his own and holds his own, but if these phantoms are willing to murder their former leftenant they’re ready to kill a mediator, too. Harry had underestimated their bloodlust, thought that his was more than the rest, but when they finally force him down they won’t let him back up. Kick after kick to his gut, to his chest, one to his face. Blood from a cut on his brow flows down his face, and his eyes only narrow when they pause. The air is eerily quiet except for his hoarse gasps for air, no sound coming from the apparitions above him (They don’t need to catch their breath. They lost it decades ago.). He’s dragged up by supernatural strength, his feet dangling in the air as a ghost hefts him. 

~~ (Will his father miss him?) ~~

**_H A R R Y_ ** , he hears his name screamed but he can’t look for the source of it, not when the specter has a hold of his shoulder and he’s too weak to break it, his knees buckled as he hangs from the phantom’s grip. He’s too weak to do anything but keep staring down those eerie shadowed eyes and spit. Maybe not the brightest idea, but if he’s going to die here surrounded by a gang of corpses (that sick feeling growing in his stomach makes him feel like he might be), he’s sure as hell not going politely. The thing reels for a moment, disgusted and furious as the spit hits its chest, and Harry laughs his unhinged laugh, this time full of fear as well as arrogance. But somehow it’s not the last thing he hears before the it reels back and slams a ghostly fist into his face.

Somehow it’s Evie in his ear when the world goes dark and his body crumples to the ground.

 

His vision is fuzzy when light eyes blink slowly open. His body is slower to catch up to him, but the ache is nothing he can ignore when he becomes aware of it. A split lip stings as he lets out an anguished groan, and the heavy footsteps he has memorized as Gil’s come pounding in, immediately followed by the lighter ones of their captain. They even speak at the same time.

“You’re awake! What hurts?” comes Gil’s gentle voice first.

“You fucking idiot!” are Uma’s ever-tender first words, followed by a hard swat to his upper arm. 

“Fuck, Uma,” Harry draws out his own words into a pitiful moan. Gil chuckles, helping to prop him up on what appears to be his spot on the couch as he surveys his surroundings. And, motherfucker, _ yes  _ those are some cracked ribs. His muscled friend ambles off, but Uma doesn’t give him a chance to ask where he’s going.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again or I swear to Calypso I will kill you myself,” she hisses, dabbing a damp cloth at his brow the opposite of gently.

“That kind of defeats the purpose, though,” Gil disagrees with a smile and hands a few pills to Harry before settling beside Uma. The muddled mind of Harry’s, though, is struggling to catch up, and doing about the opposite of succeeding. 

“What the hell happened?” he mutters slowly, finally looking to his friends. Uma just looks at him for a moment (almost like she can’t believe someone could be so dense, but she’s known him for seventeen years now so she should be used to it) before finally rolling her eyes and shifting her gaze to Gil. 

“You tried to fight that whole gang of ghosts by yourself,” he supplies with a frown.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Uma supplements.

“And you got your ass kicked. Like really kicked. Like I’ve never seen anyone get their ass kicked, and my whole family celebrates every holiday with a brawl so that’s saying something.” Harry narrows his eyes at him in an attempt to scare him out of talking, but the action only aggravates his cut.

“Figured out the whole ‘got my ass kicked’ on my own from the whole ‘my body feels broken’ bit, funny enough,” he snarks instead, attempting to roll his shoulder and instead being hit by a fresh wave of pain. Uma laughs as if she’s relishing in it, and he knows her well enough to be sure she is. “How am I not in a morgue right now?” 

Gil just looks at him like he’s stupid, which was something he never thought he would have to suffer through.  “Evie found you and got us,” he says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and somehow Harry realizes it has become that. 

“When we got there you were unconscious and bleeding on the docks,” Uma continues, eyes narrowing at him as if the whole thing is his fault. “I thought you had died, Harry.” Ah--- so that was why she was so mad. He’d made her feel something. He practically shivered at the thought.

“They were still there; I could feel them.” Gil actually shivers at the memory, and Harry can’t even fault him.

“Gil grabbed you, and we ran.” Uma’s teeth are evident as she says the words, and he knows it’s because there’s nothing she hates more than retreating. It must have been  _ bad  _ for her to have ran away. He’s a little touched.  “Evie covered us. We haven’t seen her since.” 

Spirits don’t cover for their living. (aside from one.)

 

The rest of his day is spent either sleeping or being taken care of by his friends (attentively by Gil and grudgingly by Uma). He’s been asleep for longer than he thought when he opens his eyes and finds only the glow of the full moon lighting their commons. Well, not  _ only _ . He should startle at the grey aura next to him, but this ghost has grown as familiar to him as the rest of his crew. Harry shifts to look at her, and his eyes widen at what he sees as they settle on her face.

There’s a blue-violet bruise blooming under her right eye, and a nasty split tainting her blush pink lip along with a sliver of a cut across the bridge of her nose. To see the princess like this seems inherently long, and a frown bends his lips at the thought of anything hurting her. He reaches out a hand, bruised knuckles and all, to graze his thumb under the bruise. She’s like ice, as always, but her gaze never shifts from his face, even as she winces slightly at the contact. A face like hers shouldn’t worry for a boy like him.

“Princess,” Harry murmurs, guilt tinging his words. “You look awful.” He doesn’t expect the giggle that passes her lips. 

“Thank you,  _ Laird Harry _ . You are the first boy to ever say that to me.” A gleam returns to her eyes, reminding him entirely of the way sand sparkles beneath the sea as the sun hits it. Evie peers at him, fingers hovering at the cut on his brow. “You look worse,” she teases, but there’s too much concern there to make room for any bite.

He wets his lips before letting out a low whistle. “Someone’s a bit touchy about their looks I see,” he laughs, and she rolls those endless brown eyes at him. They sober him just enough. “What happened, lass?”

“I took care of them,” she hums, curling her fingers around the one’s he’s kept at her cheek. His brows furrow in confusion.

“But ye’re--- ye’re not---” he begins, but she pulls his hand from her cheek and uses his own finger to shush him with a wicked smile.

“I am magic and mayhem, Harry Hook,” she states slyly. Even with the cuts and bruises, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so haunting or so beautiful, pride and supernatural aura lighting her features. He  **_is_ ** weak. “I’ve been dead far longer than they have. They never stood a chance when they placed a hand on you.”

He could never adore a ghost. (aside from one.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the Feast of our Lady of Guadalupe and in between chugging cups of champurrado with my family I give unto you possibly my favorite chapter yet. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you love it, hate it, or would also like to call the police on me, and most of all I hope you enjoyed it as always !!


	5. haunted

His bruises have faded and split knuckles begun to heal, and he returns to work on the docks for the first time in a week. His fellow labourers, half-caring, (He’s always struggled to connect with those his age. Something about feeling too old in his own bones and having too much fire in his veins) ask after his injuries and are easily satisfied with a short tale of a drunken brawl. He’s exhausted by the time he slogs towards home past midnight, but the change in atmosphere is a welcome distraction. He might have missed her.

“I didn’t realize the living walked so slowly,” she teases, matching his pace with a bounce in her step and a teasing glint in dark eyes when he looks to her. She looks better, bruises all but gone and the cut on her lip invisible under the rouge she’s painted on. He chuckles, shaking his head ruefully.

“I’m sure I can walk faster than ye can float, ghostie.” His jibing is as fond as hers, fonder perhaps, and even what he calls her is stripped of all bite. It sounds softer than he intends, all reflex and no thought. A high-pitched “hm” answers his words, and the spirit pokes him in the chest with an icy finger.

“I bet you can’t catch me,” Evie dares, skipping just out of reach. Her eyes glitter in the light of the full moon, mischief sparking in the depths of them, and her grin is positively impish. He takes the bait, his previously aching legs getting new life as he quickly steps after her. She squeals in excitement, picking up her skirts and running from him. He follows eagerly, chasing her around the town fountain. She peeks back at him reflexively, the both of them laughing as they continue their game of cat and mouse. Even with her advantage he’s catching up to her rapidly, and she makes the poor choice to duck into an alley he knows ends abruptly in a brick wall. 

His kohl-rimmed eyes narrow as he hunts her down, stalking after her just moments before she realizes her mistake. Reaching the wall and with full knowledge that she has nowhere left to run, the princess whips around, but he’s already there. Harry only smirks at the surprise in her eyes as she finds him so close. He languidly sprawls a muscled arm against the brick on one side of her and follows it with his other so that he’s effectively caged her in. Brown eyes flicker from his arms on either side of her before they land back on his face. Evie giggles as her mouth splits into a smile, pearly whites just barely teasing at her bottom lip. 

“Caught ye,” he says, his voice dangerously low. His heart beats in his ears, the exertion of their chase mingling with that heady feeling she always incites in him, leaving him almost breathless. 

“You know how easily I could just melt into this wall to get away,” the ghost disagrees cheekily, her chest rising and falling almost as if she hadn’t lost her breath centuries past. His light eyes hold hers a beat too long, taking in her blown pupils and a subtle rose hue flushing her cheeks. It would be impossible to see past the grey aura surrounding her, but he’s close enough now to be blessed with the sight.

“Aye, ye could.” His gaze shifts for half a moment, falls to lips red as an apple. He can’t help himself, and can’t help but wonder if they would taste as sweet as one, too. “But do ye want tae?”

She shivers, and he’s totally engrossed in the movement, aching to press closer to her. This time it’s her gaze that falls to his lips, and she takes an unnecessary breath. “I don’t,” she says, her voice unsteady and throaty and so tempting. It’s a sound that just about kills him, her voice so prevalent in his dreams and his thoughts even when she’s not beside him, even when he shouldn’t be thinking about a princess. He wonders if her mother truly was the only witch in her family, for she’s bewitched him so completely. Then, her eyes flutter shut and he can’t control himself any longer. 

His lips capture hers, and they’re soft and sweet and so suddenly they’re everything in this world. There’s nothing but her slender fingers tracing his jaw and her lips just as hungry against his. She tastes like pomegranates, he thinks, though he can’t remember ever tasting one in his life, but now he doesn’t need to because they could never compare to her. He breaks away from her slowly, feels her smile against his mouth. For the first time in so long, in this moment he feels…

content.

 

He jerks awake to the sound of Uma in a fit. Her voice, harsh with frustration, carries through the hall, and Harry stumbles out of bed to his chest, jerking on pants and struggling to fumble his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. He’s rubbing sleep from his eyes, still entirely too groggy, really, as he steps into his boots and grasps for the doorknob. His steps are light as he walks to the commons. It’s best to examine the damage before stumbling in blindly and mucking things up further. 

Uma has always had a temper and a frustrating habit of burying her emotions beneath the surface. He was infamous for wearing his heart (if you would call a mangled mess of trampled scar tissue that) on his sleeve and flashing from mood to mood, but at least once he was angry he was angry and that was that. With Uma it bubbled, boiled, and rolled like a tempest until escaping when you least expected it, and that was where Harry stepped in. They understood each other despite being so different, were the only ones who could talk each other down and handle the barbs that were guaranteed to be thrown. It was only captain and first mate that handled this tricky business, leaving simple Gil to mend their wounds after. He was too bright to light their darkest moments. They’d never admit it, but they feared snuffing him.

Except that isn’t his voice murmuring through Uma’s outbursts, and when he peeks into the room that certainly isn’t him seated on the sofa watching the captain rant. Rather, it’s Gil, gentle eyes trained on her and nodding occasionally. 

“We shouldn’t be here still,” Uma growls, more at the world than anyone in particular. Her voice is hollow and cold, and he expects their friend to cringe at it. He doesn’t. He just lets her continue, giving his full attention. “We should have our own ship by now. I can’t keep working my ass off for nothing, Gil!”

The blonde reaches for her hand, and Harry nearly winces. Not a good idea. This isn’t the time for coddling or comfort. It’s the time for screaming and throwing things and spitting out wicked insults to hide insecurities. Except, again, his eyes seem to deceive him. Uma pauses in her rant, breathing heavily from the suppressed emotion, and she considers Gil’s face before his hand. In a slow, uncertain moment that Harry almost feels as if he’s trespassing on, she places her hand in his. He offers her the smallest of smiles.

“Nothing you do could ever be for nothing,” Gil says with utter conviction, so simply that it begs to be blown off. It isn’t, though, because he’s right. Uma just rolls her eyes, huffs in disbelief as she sinks down on the sofa beside him with eyes trained straight ahead. Slowly, almost imperceptibly so, Harry watches her fingers lace with his, watches as she rests her head almost cautiously on Gil’s shoulder. Gil eases into her action, both comfortable and comforting, and smoky eyes can’t help but notice how their hair melds together like sea foam and sand.

Harry has picked up no shifts for the next day, solely because he had seen Gil had already done the same, and he even wakes at dawn to steady himself. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever woken so early unprompted, entirely because he never has, but there is something intriguing about the way the morning fog curls on the shore visible from his window. He dresses much more slowly than he had the other day, pauses to pick a shirt that ~~his~~ **their** princess had embroidered his initials, surrounded by the curve of a hook, on his pocket. His trousers, too, sport a seam repaired by the ghost, and by the time he laces and buckles his boots, he’s traced her stitches with his fingers too many times to count.

Finally, he pulls his arms through a holey black jumper and stomps through his door and past Uma’s to Gil’s. He knows their captain had taken an extra shift this morning at the pub down the street (He feels guilty, not working when she is, but that’s exactly the point for the moment.). Looking into his friend's (surprisingly clean) quarters, he spots a shirt left hanging on the knob and snatches it up. He weighs it in his hand, a sly grin pulling at his lips, for a moment before balling up the fabric and launching it at the hair like straw peeking out from under the covers.

“Oi, get dressed,” he greets, getting a fair amount of satisfaction from watching Gil wrestle with his sheets as he’s startled awake. Finally, after a few moments of agitated scrambling, the blonde manages to sit upright, his tawny eyes narrowed at Harry both in surprise and irritation. Harry holds up a finger to stop him before he even manages to open his mouth. “We’re getting breakfast. Hurry up.”

Breakfast being one of the few things to shut up the mess of rippling muscles, a delighted grin shifts onto Gil’s face as he stumbles out of bed. Harry turns to give him some privacy, and Gil hums to himself as he dresses, knowing far better than to ramble when the dark-headed boy he calls his best friend is offering breakfast. They both know he’ll be chattering on incessantly as soon as they reach the pub, though, and thanks to that Harry relishes the silence while it lasts.

The walk there is quiet, light eyes shooting stormy looks at his friend whenever he even so much as breathes too loudly. Harry might have decided to get up this early, but he still doesn’t like it. No one, in his never-humble opinion, should ever be up this early if they can help it. Gil, on the other hand, is neither a morning person nor a night owl, rather he’s simply content whenever there’s a possibility of a meal to be had. They do make it to the spot without much ado and seat themselves at a table with a patchy view of the docks. 

Uma sidles up to the table with two mugs of piping hot coffee, black for Harry (like his soul, he always says and Uma rolls her eyes) and with cream and sugar for Gil (sweet like his personality, the blonde always gloats).

“You better tip well,” she says, not even bothering to be polite. It’s what they love about her after all, and Gil flashes her a toothy grin. “Usual?”

“Harry’s paying, so two extra eggs,” the brawny boy answers, receiving a glare from the other lad in question over the top of his mug. Still, Harry tips his head to Uma in grumpy, sleep-deprived agreement as he downs as much of his coffee as possible. She snorts and shakes her head, teal braids swinging entrancingly with the motion, and slips back to the kitchen. With as slow as the pub is so far, she’ll have time to sit with them as they eat, just as Harry had planned. Good. He waits for Gil to take a sip of his drink before he starts.

“So,” He really hopes he spits his drink. It’d make him feel much better about having subjected himself to such an early morning. “Ye and our captain have been getting on lately. How long has that been stirring?”

Gil doesn’t spit out his drink. It’s a shame. His eyes do widen slightly, then flicker toward where Uma had last been as he finishes his sip and sets the mug down. A bashful smile touches the boy’s lips, and the tips of his ears grow pink. “Uh. I think, maybe always?” he admits with a sheepish chuckle, looking intently into his drink. “At least for me. She’s--- I’m a boy. She’s a tempest.” His description of her comes out reverent, only truth and awe to be found, and Harry thinks that it’s how any man should speak of their captain.

“She’s a force of nature.” Harry can’t even tease him, really. It’s not even that he’s far weaker than the blonde in these matters, but even more because he feels that same reverence with every fiber of his being. There’s a part of him that will always love her, in every sense that his poor heart can try and in every form the word might mean. There’s a separate part of the abused organ that feels the same for Gil, the sense that he’d stay by the boy through anything he needed him to. Their friendship, it goes beyond companionship. They’re his everything, and he’s part of theirs and none of them will ever say because they needn’t. “She deserves a man who sees that.” The words are half blessing (although he knew Uma didn’t need anything of the sort from him, really) and half encouragement. Gil blushes redder as his smile widens, and Harry is reminded of how many times he’s seen the boy grow nearly purple from embarrassment or laughter. He’s rather fond of his best friend, and he chuckles. 

And, speak of the devil, and she shall appear. Uma comes bustling toward them, arms loaded with enough food for an army, and sets everything down unceremoniously in the middle of the table. In an instant she’s pulled up a chair beside them and is sliding a heaping plate from the tray towards her.

“She meaning Evie?” the girl prods as Gil and Harry tuck into their prospective meals. Gil’s face is scrunched in total concentration on his eggs, and Harry’s pretty sure he’s trying to will the pink from his cheeks. Uma, oblivious only in favor of whatever she has her sights on, continues. “Are we finally going to hear what changed your mind about your ghostly lady?”

The question is innocent in that, while Uma could demand his answer, she at least poses it as a query. Gil pauses in his complete devotion to shoveling hash into his mouth to look at him curiously. There’s no excuse not to, he can tell the princess’s story without fear of alcohol in his gut altering his words. A chill runs up his spine, and he shivers, head whipping around to find the pub’s door has blown open and a gust has slipped into the building. Deft fingers ruffle through messy locks as he looks back to his friends. He doesn’t tell the story as well as Old Man Fraser had, probably because no one but the town’s elder ever could, but there’s a sincere devotion dripping from every word and a righteous disgust in the way he describes the evil queen’s filicide. When the tale is done there’s an eerie silence sat at their table for a moment. Each face reflects a different facet of a shared emotion of revulsion.

“Poor girl,” Uma laments, something more in the simple words than pity. They all know the sins of their parents, have felt them and their repercussions echoing in their own lives. The three of them have been marked by cruelty and notorious acts of those who were supposed to love them, and if anyone could understand what the spirit had suffered, it’s them. Gil sums it up best, a remorseful frown set on his features.

“She’s one of us,” he says simply. Uma and Harry nod slowly. It isn’t a compliment, to be one of them, but it is a binding, a promise that you’ll never be alone again. Uma, ever-wary, and Harry, never-trusting, share a look that speaks volumes. ‘Three is becoming four’, obsidian eyes state, reaffirm what Gil had said, and sea glass eyes never flicker from anything but agreement. As pleased as Harry feels at Uma’s decision (Not for any reason beside that Evie deserves it, their protection. Not for anything so unrealistic as love.), it isn’t the reason that he’d gotten up so early or footed the bill for the meal. There’s something equally as serious tugging at him, and he has to broach the topic before Uma’s pulled back to work.

“Uma,” his brogue is uncharacteristically serious, drawing back two sets of eyes toward him and away from where they had settled back on their food. “How far behind have we fallen?” Uma blinks at him before dark eyes flit out to the docks longingly. She takes a frustrated breath and purses her lips. 

“We’re not even close,” a beat and then she huffs out a cold laugh. “Not even close to close.” It isn’t blame in her voice, but Harry still feels the guilt tighten in his chest. He hasn’t been paying attention at all to their plan; it’s faded to the back of his mind, replaced by red lips and cold touches and a warm heart placed in his hands. He hasn’t even thought of leaving the village, hasn’t dreamed of the ship they’ve had their eye on since they moved here. 

“Hey.” He takes her hand, reaches to clasp his fingers around Gil’s wrist, linking all three of them. Their leader looks to him, eyes tired, and Gil’s gaze shifts between the two of them hopefully. “We’ll take more shifts. I’ll turn back tae my dastardly ways. We’re getting that ship, and we’re getting out of here. I swear it.”

“ **_We_ ** swear it,” Gil agrees, eager smile on his lips. Uma looks to both of them, some uncertainty still in the depths of her irises. Gil reaches to lace the fingers of his other hand with hers, all three of them wholly connected by the action, and she smiles, brighter than the sun, brighter than the gold of her mother’s legacy.   


 

The rest of the day passes slowly, yet every moment he expects an apparition to appear. It’s unlike her to stay away, especially lately. In all honesty, he almost feels addicted to her, and ever since he’d kissed her it’s about all he can think of. But, more than that, he likes making her blush, likes making her smile, likes how she looks at him like maybe he isn’t some sort of abomination. Knowing Evie is the first gift his ability has ever given him, the first time he hasn’t hated being a mediator. A part of him he won’t acknowledge thinks he might be good for her, too, thinks that she doesn’t look as lonely anymore, thinks she finally has someone who would do anything for her (Not that he would. Not that he would admit to thinking he would do anything he could to keep that dark melancholy from seeping into her eyes again). 

He doesn’t see her the next day either, although that doesn’t mean his mind doesn’t wander to her during his early shift. When it’s over he scans the scenery for a glance at her, ice blue eyes almost desperate, and as the boy walks slowly home, he caves. “Evie,” comes past his lips, a prayer, a beg, a wish. He nearly wills himself into feeling the shudder in the air around him as if she had joined him. After moments of nothing, his voice grows more fervent. “Princess.” Uma would never let him live it down if she heard the longing in his tone. What had this ghost done to him?

He misses the ache of cold running through his body, the feeling that had always been a harsh warning of only the worst things to come now nearly as soft and as cherished as the touch of a lover. Evie has never ignored his call before, even when he didn’t deserve it, and his heart starts to beat faster, something like fear lighting his veins. Harry remembers the shiver that had run up his spine at the pub, how easily he had dismissed it as just the last of winter’s breezes unwilling to relinquish their hold on the country to the coming spring. What a stupid thing to think, but suddenly he has the barest idea where a princess might be. A place he’s only glimpsed from afar upon the cliffs, only heard of in ghost stories. Again, despite his weary bones the thought of her urges him forward.

“Evie?” She’s sitting on the ruins of what might have been a window ledge centuries ago, and he can only imagine what Uma’s reaction might have been had she spotted him in her place. As it is, Harry isn’t one to speak on the edge of safety, and there’s little worse that can happen to the lass beside what has already been done.

“Gil asked me once, if it was normal for a ghost to wear so many different clothes, do you remember?” Her voice is so quiet he barely hears it, and it’s a right hollow sound. He keeps walking towards her, answering as he picks around the uneven terrain of what was once her castle.

“Aye, I do. Ye said it was because ye remembered sewing every single one.” It was a funny thing he had learned about ghosts, how much of their form and substance came from what they perceived and remembered rather than what might have been.

“I didn’t remember--- my last day,” she sniffs, and her voice catches. When she looks back over her shoulder at him there’s silver tear tracks running down her cheeks, and a small, tender part of his heart he didn’t know he had clenches. “Until this morning whenever I thought back all I saw was shadows, but...but…” One of her hands shivers up to her chest, and the other covers her mouth as she holds back a sob. Finally close enough to reach out and touch her, he hesitates, instead takes the one last step to stand by her side. Evie won’t look at him, only at the sea past the cliffs. With a shallow breath he reaches out his hand for the one she has clutching her chest. “I remember everything.”

Rather than giving him that hand, she reaches to her midnight hair with the one once covering her mouth, drawing his eyes up to follow, and he sees---

“It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?” Her voice cracks as she removes it from her tresses. She’s right. It is. The tiara shines, even in the ghostly haze that surrounds her; each sapphire glitters as the spirit holds it to the light. “Mummy had been acting so odd, like she was unhappy with me, and then to give me this!” A hint of a smile wavers at the corners of her lips at the memory, but even she can’t keep it there long. “But she wanted something, too.” Her attempt at a chuckle comes out broken.

Moving her other hand, Harry sees what she was protecting, and again he’s caught between breaking something and retching. The smooth skin at her chest, peeking out from the top of her bodice, is gored by three jagged cuts. They’re just barely healed, bruised and with blood still visible at the seams. Who could do this to someone they were supposed to love? How could they hurt such a sweet thing? Tearing his gaze away from where her heart once lay, he looks up to meet her eyes, and his heart clenches tighter. He’s never seen her like this; she looks so sad and scared and unsure. 

“Princess,” he utters the word like it means all the others he can’t find to say how sorry he is. Harry pulls her to him gently, wrapping his arms around her as if they’re enough to keep her safe even from memory. She trembles in his hold, clutching at his shirt as silent tears escape her. Slowly he slides them off the ledge, continuing to hold her close as his back rests against the former castle wall and she settles in his lap. He’s woefully unprepared to soothe her, usually one to stay away from tears of any sort. (His Da had always said they were the most deplorable sign of weakness, never allowed any of his children the luxury of crying.) For her, though, he tries, hums what was his mother’s favorite lullaby to her as she curls closer against his chest.

“I’m so sorry, lass,” he murmurs, voice a whisper as he smooths her hair. After a a few quiet moments she swallows thickly, lifting her head to look at him. He reaches with calloused fingers to brush away the tears from her cheeks, but they don’t move. In the same way that her tears didn’t dampen his shirt, he can’t touch them. They aren’t real in the same sense he is, in the same way she isn’t tangible. It’s a cruel reminder in this dark moment of how little Harry can really do for her, but she doesn’t hold it against him. Rather the princess looks away from him with a shuddering sigh, wiping away the tears with her own hand. 

“I thought she loved me.” There’s fear in the words, and she shivers when his fingers nudge her face back to meet his. There’s a tenderness in his gaze he doesn’t think he’s ever felt there before, and her eyes, still brimming with unshed tears, soften, her trembling quieting in his embrace.

“She ought tae have,” he says without anything even close to doubt in his words. “And no one is ever going tae hurt ye again. Evie, I swear it.” Her eyes grow unreadable, but she nods gently. Hesitantly, she raises her hand to caress his cheek, leaning in slowly to press a soft kiss on his lips. There’s a promise there, and he kisses her back tenderly, reverently, like she’s the most precious thing the world could offer a boy like him. Pulling away, a wan smile just barely touches her red lips before she tucks her head into the crook of his neck. He can’t help but think she fits there perfectly as he brushes his lips atop the crown of her head.

Three _is_ becoming four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> confession time: the sea3 snuck up on me on how much I love them and need them to be together forever !!
> 
> I hope everyone had a lovely holiday season (although I suppose it's a bit early for me to say that with NYE coming up in a few days!)
> 
> And, I hope you enjoy a bit of a calm before the storm that's going to be our last chapter, and honestly thank you all for sticking around so far! As always, feedback of any kind is super appreciated, and I can't wait to finish this for us !!


	6. twilight

He doesn’t know if it’s the light streaming through the curtains or the chill in his bones that wakes him, but there’s a quiet stillness in the morning that he has never appreciated quite like this. Midnight locks lay tumbled across his chest, and he takes a moment to run his fingers through the cool strands, a small smile catching at his lips. Harry rolls over with a hum, curling his arms around her waist to pull the girl ghost closer into his chest, the shiver that wracks his body at the ice of her touch doing nothing to lessen his hold. She nestles her face into the crook of his neck with a noise almost like a purr and a low chuckle reverberates through his chest.

“Mornin’,” he greets, placing a lazy kiss on her jaw.

“You slept for _ages_ ,” she teases, and Harry chuckles against her skin. Life isn’t fair, but sometimes even in the depths of her cruelty she allows for some grace to exist.

 

He shouldn’t be spying on them, it’s somewhere between a violation of trust and an embarrassing amount of jealousy at not being included in whatever this is, but it’s not as if Harry has ever been a bastion of morality before. It’s a long trek, out of town and up the rolling hills, but the ruins of a castle on a cliff have become so unnaturally familiar that he finds himself drawn there whenever he needs time alone to think. His captain and his princess picking through the site is a complete surprise when he approaches the spot, and while he knows he should retreat, give them privacy, he doesn't. Instead he slinks closer until he's just within earshot and hides behind what once where the keep’s impenetrable walls.

Evie hovers over the vestiges of her former home, searching for something, what exactly Harry has no idea. Finally she settles beside a crumbling wall, and brushes weightless hands along the ground.

“Uma, here,” she calls, her voice quickly followed by the nimble feet of his captain to the spot. Harry, himself, sneaks a little closer, until he can catch the tail end of Evie’s instruction. “---spell. Repeat the incantation I tell you.”

“Spell? Incantation?” He can hear the balk in Uma’s words. She may have mentioned a sea witch in her family, but she never called what she did magic. Yes, there were ghosts, and she may have performed rituals, but the three of them had lines they didn’t cross. Lines like the one between reality and magic and superstition. Lines that kept them sane (or at least relatively sane in his case) in a world of villainous lineages and spectres that was hell bent on ruining them. “I can’t--- I don’t do that.”

Peeking past the ruins he’s been seeking shelter behind, Harry just catches a glimpse of Evie narrowing ghostly eyes in confusion before ducking back into hiding. “Magic runs in your veins, Uma. Can’t you feel it? Just bristling under your skin.” Uma doesn’t reply. He can just imagine the disbelief, reluctance, in her gaze, probably mirroring his own. “My mother was a witch, and she taught me nearly everything she knew. We coerced magic, sewed it into the seams of our potions and spells, but it wasn’t really ours. You’re different. There’s something deep and ancient about yours. You control it, own it. You can do this.”

A scoff follows, then a pregnant pause. Uma’s thought process is so heavy he can practically hear it. They’ve known each other long enough that even without seeing her face or hearing her voice, he can read her silence. “What’s the incantation?” the girl finally replies, a thwack of hair against stone signaling that she’s flipped a curtain of her braids over her shoulder. Her voice is shallow with skepticism and another emotion he barely recognizes. Weaker, softer people might have called it hope.

The words their spirit utters are not of a language he recognizes, but Uma repeats them, uncertain at first but her tone growing steadier and even otherworldly with each repetition. The last sounds echoing in the quiet landscape once they’re finished, a piercing thud, like great stones scraping against each other, finally follows. Evie hums, and the short noise just screams ‘I’m above telling you I told you so, but I told you so’. He would bet his life that Uma rolls her eyes in response.

“After you, princess,” her voice follows. A moment passes, and he hears boots echoing against stone, like footfalls on rocky steps.

No longer able to hold back his curiosity, raven hair and sea glass eyes peek out past the ruins, and tentative, ready to bolt at any sudden movement, steps bring him to the edge of some sort of cellar. Or perhaps a dungeon. And then, of course, a pirate’s mind has only one last place to imagine. Was it a treasure hold? His legs practically itch to take the steps down two at a time, but he can’t. ( It’s what he deserves for being so intrusive. ) Rather, he huffs, tucks his fingers into the pockets of his coat, fumbles along its seams for something to do as he waits. A tear in the fabric surprises him, unnatural shape in the lining taunting thieving fingers until finally he’s able to draw out the---  


**_“Every man who sails the salty seas needs his charm, lad.”_ **

And there in the palm of his hand is his. A silver hook, his father’s last gift to him before he followed Uma to this ghastly town. It was the first time there wasn't some level of boredom resting in James’s eyes when he looked at his only son, this time a bit of pride fighting its way through the dark depths. His father had called it their legacy, one of infamy and unspeakable acts, and Harry understood it. How many times had the sailor told stories of their ancestor who controlled the seas and plundered the richest ports? The Captain Hook who was the most feared pirate the ocean had ever allowed sail its raucous waters. The man that won them their legacy and their name, pried it from the cold, dead hands of wealthy merchants and bitter rivals alike. This silver hook was his birthright and his curse, a charm for good luck and a promise of cruel deeds to come, and he can't believe that he hasn't missed its presence, its weight, for so many months. It's only the sound of distant footfalls that rips his eyes and his mind from it, and he pockets the charm again, this time careful to keep it away from the tear ( he’ll ask Evie to mend it for him later, a dark grin crawling on sharp features as he imagines how he’ll repay her, too ) as he slips back into the growing shadows of the ruins.

With the light of the day fading, there's enough cover that this time he can fully watch the two as they emerge from underground. Uma’s pockets are bulging, and yet her shoulders look somehow both immeasurably lighter and devastatingly heavier. The princess’s face is a coolly covered mask, bright smile not quite enough to light her eyes. And yet, when Uma falters before her, she manages a more even look.

“You're sure about this? Really sure?” proud lips ask, uncommon compassion warming coal-bright eyes. It's infuriating that he doesn't know what they're referencing, especially when Evie glances away, looking as unsure as she has since he found her here weeks ago. Something changed that day, sometimes he thinks for the better and other times for the worst. He doesn't know how to fix it, would give anything to be able to, but he’s too broken to pick together anything else and it tears at him.

“You don't think I should be,” ghostly eyes don't quite meet his captains’. It doesn't go unnoticed by either of the living. Harry watches with breath bated as Uma’s fingers twitch, reach out, almost as if for Evie’s icy, intangible ones before she remembers herself.

“I think that we’re both too familiar with no-win situations to ever be sure of anything.” The words are solemn but some of the weight lifts on her back once they're past her lips, and their spirit cracks a sad smile that looks far more real than he's seen in days. Uma pauses before turning back, he watches her work a graced jaw. Finally words come, past pursed lips and eyes just deep enough that another boy might not have seen the fire lit in their depths. “I'm sorry about your mother.”

Ghostly fingers crawl up to her chest, hover over ghastly wounds that will never heal, but the sadness in her smile mingles with softness all the same. He can barely hear her voice, like a breath on a breeze. “I’m sorry about yours.”

Uma’s lips tighten, but the fire in her eyes wanes, calms like the storm she reminds him of, and she nods before turning back to face their walk towards home.

 

Days pass, though Harry doesn’t forget what he witnessed. Curiosity practically seeps out of his pores like sweat, but to ask is to admit and he’s not nearly that stupid. Uma is sinisterly quiet, but in a way that truly reeks of smugness. It’s the same aura she’d worn when he’d met her, such confidence and vigor and assurance that he’d follow anywhere, and even if she’s keeping something from him, he’s missed seeing her like this. It’s who she is in her best moments. Gil, too, feels it and shines in it. She brings out the best in them, and it’s a good sign after all their uncertainty.

Yet, as Uma concentrates, becomes more herself as anxiety and doubt slough off her shoulders, Evie fades, sometimes he feels as if literally as well as metaphorically. She’s still with them, needle and thread held between slender fingers when they gather in the commons nightly, a wan smile perched on garnet lips, but she doesn’t speak nearly as readily as she had. Uma leaves her be, the two share the knowing looks that he used to share with his captain. Gil, always Gil, still manages to coax a few ripples of laughter from deep in her chest.

Later one night, after Gil and Uma have slipped off to bed ( Separately, for now at least. From the eye contact they’ve been sharing he doesn’t expect it will remain that way forever. ) he finds himself just dozing off, and Evie, sat on the floor beside him with her head resting against his knee, draws an unnecessary heavy breath. Blinking weariness out of light eyes, Harry shifts up in his seat, runs rough fingers against the soft skin of her cheek. Umber eyes flicker up to him, features breathtaking in the low light. His hands ache to draw her up to him, to capture red lips with his own, but now isn’t quite the time. Intense eyes search hers, his mouth quirking just barely. “I can’nae fall asleep with ye thinking so loud.” Her mouth shifts in turn, an attempt at a smile made but dark hues remain touched with that melancholy tone he had been arrogant enough to believe he’d chased away for good. “O _h, love,_ ” he breathes, thumb brushing against her skin again, motion as tender as he’s able. White teeth work at her lower lip, and she isn’t quite looking at him as she answers, solemn gaze fixed somewhere just past him.

“What did she do with it?” He has to strain his ears to catch the words, they’re so hushed. Again her hand creeps to her chest, clutching at the abused skin as he watches her blink away sudden tears. Finally she looks at him, and he can feel her tremble beneath his palm. “Where is it?”

His jaw clenches, anger evident as he reads the pain in her features, and he’s unfamiliar with this feeling, with caring so much. It’s different from how he feels for his friends, but just as intense and the idea that he’s fallen this far and let her in so completely is sobering. It terrifies him, but Evie is still looking at him with lost eyes and quivering lips. He can’t be terrified of something so tender. Harry doesn’t even think before moving from the sofa to fall to his knees beside her. His fingers clasp around those covering the gashes, slowly drawing away her grasp to place its chill over where his own heart beats beneath his skin, stormy eyes holding those like burnished gold so steadily.

 

“It’s here,” he assures simply, uncommonly gentle. “It’ll always be here so long as I live, I promise ye.”

 

There’s a moment before it happens, before her lips meet his where somehow her features grow only more mournful, wistful, he can never tell the difference. ( never with her ) It’s a moment that keeps him up at night, in the months to come. One he’ll never forget but, right then it’s gone so quickly it’s so damn easy to brush off, forget. In an instant her lips do catch his, and they’re so staggeringly soft and sweet. He’d rather lose the air from his lungs before he loses a moment with her. It’s gentle at first, slow and comforting and languid, but it doesn’t stay that way.

Nails rake through his hair as her kisses grow more urgent, and that’s really all the encouragement he needs before his fingers are buried in raven curls and his tongue traces the seam of her mouth. A heated murmur passes ruby lips as they part for him, and he coaxes more from her with each gentle tug of the dark tresses. He pulls away for a moment, breathing heavy and skin hot and want lighting every inch of his being. There’s sin in his light eyes and a smirk that only grows more devilish as he takes in his princess’s swollen lips and disheveled hair. Pupils blown, and that same lusty look in his eyes mirrored in sandy depths, her fingers run along the v of his shirt, just tracing the planes of his chest with fingers as cool and soft as silk. He can’t help the needy groan she elicits, nor does he want to. He’s about to protest at the loss of her touch, but it’s caught in his throat when those nimble fingers move only to toy with the laces of her corset. “Lass,” the growl rumbles low in his chest, his hands grasping posessively at her waist.

“Harry,” she answers, equal yearning in her voice as she pulls at them, so frustratingly slowly he can’t help himself any longer. He captures her lips in a searing kiss, pressing closer until he’s pinned her beneath him, a wicked glint in pale eyes that she meets with dangerously lidded ones.

And if each kiss feels like the last one, that’s just his imagination. And if her lips taste like goodbye, it’s just his doubts chasing him like always. And if each sigh they breathe dies before it can mingle, it’s alright. It’s alright. _It’s alright._  


It’s impossible to keep the satisfied smirk from his lips the day after, and even Gil finds him incorrigible as they laze in the commons together. Harry’s pulled his hat low over his face, sprawled across an armchair in exactly the opposite way it was designed to be used. He also has Gil’s jacket draped over his chest like a makeshift blanket ( only because he’d mentioned not getting much sleep the night before and Gil had thrown it at him in exasperation ). Just as he’s about to drift off, their door bursts open, then slams shut and a rolled document smacks into his chest. One ringed finger moves to tip back up the brim of his hat to find Uma’s face split into an elated grin as she watches him.

“Come on,” she goads, moving to seat herself on the arm of the couch beside Gil, excitement clear in her features and anticipation growing in Gil’s. “Open it.” He shifts up on his elbows, body falling to actually sit in the chair, and he twists his body into the proper position as he unfurls the pages. They’re---

It can’t be. He scans the paper, reading and rereading, somehow sure that he must be doing it incorrectly because it shouldn’t say this. It can’t. There’s no way. He doesn’t want to hope, to feel the crushing disappointment again. “A schooner,” he murmurs, and Gil instantly is scrambling over to him, taking the paper into his large hands so tenderly, almost reverently.

“Our schooner,” Uma corrects. That silly, weak, trampled organ in his chest clenches and soars. He doesn’t know what to do with this kind of happiness, with a dream come true. This doesn’t happen to people like them. They don’t get to win.

“Our schooner,” Gil repeats softly, setting the papers carefully beside him, as Harry grapples with his disbelief. The brawny lad looks to Uma, sunshine features lit with unrivaled joy. “ **Our schooner _!_** ”

For a split second Harry sees indecision in his friend’s brown eyes, and then he’s standing, sweeping their captain up from her seat, twirling her in the air in his strong arms. There’s surprise in her features, but it only lasts a moment before she’s laughing, clear and bright. Gil’s own laughter mingles with it, and upon setting her down, the tall lad bends to peck her cheek, an action so soft Harry wants to retch and applaud at the same time as both their cheeks grow a dusty pink, Uma somehow managing to look surprised and absolutely not. ( Perhaps they’ve all been waiting for it to happen, and yet still unsure as to whether it really would. ) In an effort to hide his embarrassed elation, ears now, to,o growing red as his grin grows unbreakable, and also to continue the celebration, of course, Gil reaches for Harry’s arm, pulling him, too, out of his seat and into a tight bear hug. Harry hates hugs, he does, but this one he doesn’t fight, finds himself grinning into the affection as he tugs Uma into the fray, too. They stay that way for a while, holding each other, basking in uncommon victory, and happiness, for once, allowed to light their features.  


Hours later they’re at the pub, all three sat at the same table they’d shared breakfast at weeks ago. They’re there to celebrate, tankards of ale before them and even a mess of empty shot glasses strewn about. They’re not drunk, they don’t plan to be, even Harry (to think at one time he’d slipped down here to avoid his spirit).

“Not to sound dull,” Gil begins, apologetic smile perched on his lips. “But how?” Harry has to admit it’s not a dull question at all. Uma pauses, ruminates on the question, uncommon reluctance settling around her mouth.

“Princesses have castles,” she says simply. “Castles have treasure.” His chest should go warm, he should feel doubt and curiosity ease from his mind. Now he understands what had brought them to the ruins, knows that his wild pirate itch had been correct. A treasure hold that provided them what would be their great escape. He can’t shake the looks on their faces when they emerged from the underground keep, the silence. It doesn’t fit the lightness of the moment now. It doesn’t make sense.

 

There’s a chill in the apartment when they return, unnatural for the warmer summer months they’re just entering, and they find its source upon stepping into the kitchen. Spread out on the table before her are their ownership documents, and Evie herself ponders them, delicate face rested between her palms and shoulders uncharacteristically slouched. She looks up suddenly when they enter, wan smile drifting onto her lips.

 

“They’re going to be telling your stories for ages,” she greets, false cheer in her voice that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It hits him, the source of the melancholy.

“Our stories, princess,” he assures, taking the last few steps to reach her side, feeling lighter. As if they’d leave her. Didn’t she realize she was one of them now? Gil, too, follows, golden grin like sunlight in ways that Harry’s never could be.

“You’re one of us,” he explains, so simply and so honestly in the way that only he can speak. The reaffirmation should be enough, shouldn’t it? This is their best day! This is the beginning of a new chance for them, but her expression doesn’t shift, not at all.

“Your stories,” their ghost repeats, voice steady. He can see her fighting to keep the wan smile in place, but it’s a losing battle. “Spirits are limited to the land. We cannot go past the shore.” And that, that sucks the breath from his lungs, hurts deep in his chest. “You three were meant for this.” There’s no hesitation in her words, no need to pause for sudden revelations. She knew. _She knew._ Pale eyes sweep the room, watch Uma look away and see equal surprise in Gil’s expression. When he looks back, umber eyes, always tinged with grey, are searching his, waiting for a response, and again he _hurts_.

“So, what? Ye do all this?” Any lightness he’d felt dissipates, the easy joy of the day ruined. There’s anger in his voice, disbelief, betrayal most of all. Before her he didn’t acknowledge those weaker parts of him. He didn’t have a heart. He didn’t hurt. He didn’t let anyone in.

“You were supposed to be happy.” The worst thing is that it isn’t a lie. He wants it to be. He wants to be angry. It’s more familiar. It’s easier. Watching her face start to crumble, hearing light footsteps of Gil and Uma fleeing the room, is the opposite of easy.

“I’m supposed tae be happy?” he asks, and there’s uncommon bite in the words. He’s been so soft with her, made himself soft in the process, vulnerable. He hasn’t been vulnerable since he was a lad, since he’d believed that deep down his father loved him, that everything would work out all right, but it never lasts. He can’t look at her any longer, can’t handle the constriction in his chest so he turns away, clenches his fingers into fists.

“Your first love was the sea, Harry.” Her voice cracks, and maybe a part of his heart does, too. Why can’t he be happy? What did he do to deserve this? When icy fingers grasp at his sleeve, he aches to lean into her touch, but he can’t. “I won’t keep you from her.”  
  
“So ye just thought ye would make the choice for me?” And that’s what it boils down to, doesn’t it? That’s why he raises his voice, why he turns back to her so viciously. There’s no warning, no chance for him to draw up his guard. No chance for him to have a say. ( to say no. to say all the words on his tongue about how much he cares. )

“It’s not a choice! It’s what you’ve always dreamed of against a corpse.” It’s just like their first fight but the roles switched. She sounds desperate, and there’s no way he can ignore the pain in her eyes, the way her voice catches when she utters the word ‘corpse’. ( All over again there’s guilt tearing at his stomach, such an unfamiliar emotion, guilt that he’d used the word against her so often and always to scar. ) A part of him, the deepest and best part of him, longs for her to convince him to stay, would beg her not to force his hand. Just give him a reason, a way out, some incantation to let them be together and be happy and to live the lives they’ve always wanted. A single tear tracks done her silken skin, and he clenches his fist tighter to stop himself from the useless attempt to comfort her. He can’t do anything for her. He should have learned that lesson already. “I’m dead, Harry. I’ve just been selfish and vain, like my mother. Thinking that we---”

That best part of him flares up before he can catch it, before he can save himself entirely.

“It’s not selfish! I---” LOVE YOU. He chokes on the words, refuses to say them, refuses to say it when he knows it’ll only hurt him in the end. His jaw clenches, swallowing the words, swallowing every good feeling she’s coaxed out of him. His voice is cold when he continues, emotionless because it has to be. “Ye’re just a scared wee ghostie.”

 ~~His~~   _The_ princess’s chin wavers, like she might say something, like she can’t say something. Fathomless eyes, still so much like the sea he adores, still a hue that he adores, are forced to the ceiling, just brimming with crystal tears and fighting them back. ( He hates himself, hates himself, hates himself. There’s no honor in making pretty girls cry. ) Finally, she looks back to him, gaze still breathtaking as she nods once, twice, both movements so shallow, unsteady, unsure. All he does is watch as she fades away like smoke, like fog, like something precious you just can’t keep.

He turns on his heel, as if grinding out the man he’d forged in a foggy town with people he’d loved, stomping on his own heart ( it was only fair that he got to scar it himself at least once ), clutching in his newly mended pocket for a silver hook that he holds like a lifeline, stalking to his room, a space haunted by soft sighs and gentle touches and looks that took his breath away solely for the gentleness of them. He can’t wait to leave, can’t wait to sail the seven seas just like his father, just like a scoundrel, just like he was meant to. ( You can’t change fate. You can’t change a legacy. )

 

They’ve been at sea three weeks now. The schooner is everything they had hoped for, or at least Harry guesses it is. He sleeps late and stays up later, manning the helm only when their path is lit by the stars. He doesn’t appreciate much of anything anymore, feels numb and self-pitying and spiteful. The only real constant is the small charm in his hand, that small piece of his father he needs now more than ever. His captain had tried to catch him before they left their village, tried to explain the accord she made with their ( He bristles when she calls her that. She isn’t THEIRS anymore, isn’t _his_ anymore. ) apparition, but he’d only brushed her off, ignored her words. He won’t talk about her, won’t talk about betrayal and love and everything else she left him missing. Don’t they understand he doesn’t want to talk? Doesn’t want to exist? That even this, the sea, the sun, the salt air, it isn’t enough?

 

It’s frigid salt water drowning him one morning that wakes him, spluttering lips and thrashing limbs awakening frantically to find Uma staring him down with an empty bucket in her grasp.

There’s no smile on her lips, just frustration set in her features.

“Get up,” she orders, and before he can reply, tell her to ‘piss off’, a wad of clothing barrels into the side of his head, and he hears Gil’s telltale heavy footsteps make their way over to his bed. “And, Calypso, pull yourself together.”

It’s not a wake up call he appreciates, and he’s beginning to see red as he dresses, each movement unnecessarily forceful. Uma’s moved away from him, giving him a bare modicum of privacy, and as soon as he’s fully clothed, she’s staring him down again, eyes hard. He can feel a tirade coming, in fact would really love the chance to engage in a screaming match, until Gil’s reaching for his hand and plucking the silver hook from his grasp before he can stop him.

“Really?” his best friend asks, running the charm along his palm. He sounds--- serious, no hints of self-deprecation or dullness in his tone, and there is no sunny smile accompanying his question. If anything, the blonde looks disappointed. “This?”

“The last thing my Da gave me,” Harry huffs in response, irritation mingling with anger. He’s ready to fight, but the rippling muscles of Gil’s biceps aren’t quite what he was looking to go up against. Sandy brow furrows, and the blonde’s expression grows far more stoic than either of his friends are used to.

“No,” he disagrees, keeping the relic out of reach. “The last thing your dad gave you was anger and madness and the dumb idea that you aren’t good enough. This,” Gil gestures to the charm, “is just an excuse to go back to being the shit he wanted you to be.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, ready to argue, wanting to argue, but his friend is on a roll. “Just like that,” he motions to Uma’s golden shell, her mother’s gift to her. “Just like my gloves.” The yellow fingerless gloves were a Gil staple, hand-me-downs from his piece of work father that, no matter how ratty they got, he refused to get rid of. “Our parents were awful. They didn’t deserve us, and we keep chasing them, for what?” In a fluid motion he tosses Harry’s hook back to him and tugs off his aforementioned gloves. “I’m done. We’re all done. I’m so sick of trying to make my dad proud. He’s never going to be. Your mom and your dad aren’t either.”

There’s pride in Uma’s eyes as she watches Gil, and even Harry follows with her when the blonde heads out of Harry’s cabin and walks to the schooner’s rail. Without a pause, a second thought, Gil draws his arm back and hurls the gloves into the roiling sea. He’s back to beaming when he turns to the both of them again. “Wow,” he hums, and he somehow even looks freer. “Come on, guys.” If anyone else tried anything similar, to rip history and poorly mended, stunted ideas of self-worth from their fingers, the look shared between Uma and Harry would be murderous, but for Gil, it never is. For Gil, it hits, true and real, and maybe they can believe him. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he sees them like they deserve, like they’re worth something, like they were meant to be seen even if their parents never could, never wanted to.

Uma makes a face, draws up slender fingers to toy with the shell about her neck, but she does reach for the clasp, drawing the necklace into her hand. There’s still something wistful in her expression as she drinks it in, the promise of power and pride and everything her mother never attained but did heft onto her daughter’s back, and after a moment’s hesitation she slips it into her pocket rather than back around her neck. It’s a step, a big one. One that Harry never thought he’d see, one that shakes him to his core with how much he cares. It’s a useless thought, an obvious one, that these two are and always have been his heart, proof that he has one. He was just better at hiding it then because they all were, because about each other was understood but never voiced, and maybe that’s a weakness, a real one unlike all the ones he has imagined, that they’re finally shedding.

Now there’s two sets of eyes on Harry, and he grimaces at them, feeling exceptionally pressured into giving up what’s been like a buoy to his mangled, hopeless notions. As if reading his thoughts ( which, at this point the three practically could ) Uma pipes in.

“You don’t need it like you think you do.” Harry would like to disagree, has an argument on his lips because hasn’t he hurt enough without giving away this excuse, too, but Gil places a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention up to gentle features.

“You’re a good man, Harry,” he says, like he really believes it. “This isn’t your legacy. You are.”

And maybe he isn’t ready to give it up completely, sacrifice the charm to the ocean’s depths, but he does return it to his chest of drawers, captain and crew following his silent walk back to his room and watching the action with pleased expressions, and there, tucked between two of his favorite rings is something else, a sapphire, deep and dark as the stormy sea and so reminiscent of midnight curls that his heart aches, almost as if to remind him again that it does exist, that it is still buried in his chest. Beneath it lays a slip of silk, two words embroidered neatly into it. _Remember Me._

And he does, and it’s another revelation that she’s still there, because if Uma and Gil are his heart and home then Evie was the ember that ignited it feeling again, like a hearth warming him to the idea of accepting that it wasn’t too poorly mended to care again. What he felt for her, feels for her, what she drew out of him, it’s still there, and maybe it’s a gift rather than a sentence to suffering.

 

The sapphire is slipped into his pocket to replace a certain silver hook, somehow comforting even as a reminder of what he lost and what he threw away. In the following days, his friends don’t allow his bad habits to continue, forcing him back into the sunlight and sea air, prying conversation from his throat along with occasional bouts of laughter. Eventually he feels, not like himself again, but better, maybe, more like a boy who lived in a foggy town along the sea and was reminded to love rather than simply the malicious son of a scoundrel and a cheat who fell far too close to the tree.

Finally, one early morn he greets Uma at the helm with a tip of his hat and a jaunty smirk. “Where are we headed, Captain?” he asks cheekily. His words are met with a knowing smile of her own, mischievous and generous all at once.

 

“Grimhilde, along the Rhine. We have respects to pay, secrets to unfurl, and maybe even a little treasure to bring back to us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow !! i am so honestly so glad i could finish this for you. it's actually the first multi-chapter fic i've ever finished so this is a momentous occasion. THANK YOU !! thank you so much for sticking with me. for all the kudos and comments. I would never have been ever to muster up the motivation for any of this without you readers. i'm crying in the club a little about your support and a lot about our children but, just, i hope you enjoyed this. ( and i'm not saying anything about a sequel just yet because i need to bask in the actual finishing of something but maybe ) love you all so much ! please comment if you liked it, hated it, hate me, love me, anything !! ( if you can't think of anything to say or feel awkward, honestly just highlight a line you liked and comment it! it's a super easy way to give ya girl some validation and i love to get your feedback !! )

**Author's Note:**

> I became obsessed with Descendants in a week, consumed every bit of hevie content I could in four days, but I was sure I would never be able to accurately write them myself--- until I got this little idea. Hopefully I did all of them justice (because I've come to love Gil and Uma as much as I first started to love Evie and then Harry), and if not I'm hoping that my portrayal will only get better as I continue this fic that was supposed to just be a one-shot.


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